CHAPTER 157: OVER 36 TRILLION!
Ren Shiroki loved to train, but he wasn't a "training maniac" in the traditional sense.
In his eyes, cultivation wasn't restricted to repeating forms or lifting iron. It was everywhere in the mundane rhythm of the day.
Just as Ryu had once told him: [In my travels, I encounter many things that are just as profound as a fist.]
[A recipe perfected by a chef, a melody composed by a musician, a structure raised by an architect... even a singular set of values held by a stranger.]
[Seeing people pour their souls into their own 'Art' makes me reflect. It is interesting, joyful, and ultimately... fulfilling.]
"..."
It was because of this philosophy that Ren felt a genuine pang of guilt for destroying the brickwork. To him, the workers weren't just laborers; they were practitioners of the art of construction.
Ren offered a formal apology and a promise: if he broke it again, he'd pay double for the repair and hire the same crew. The workers grumbled, but they accepted the deal. They went back to patching the crater.
The training continued.
Near noon, another visitor arrived.
Takeshi Wakatsuki, the exclusive fighter for Furumi Pharmaceuticals, stepped into the yard. He carried a heavy medical case filled with the high-grade supplements and restricted drugs Ren had ordered.
An Sakurai scurried forward to take the "medical ammo," her split tongue flickering with excitement.
She and the Wild Tiger turned their gaze toward the clear patch of dirt where Ren was working the heavy bag.
WHOOSH!
BAP! BAP-BAP!
Ren fired a rhythmic sequence of punches. His footwork was light, his mass shifting with every strike. He wasn't just hitting the bag; he was simulating an exchange, ducking and weaving through phantom counters.
"SEI—YAH!"
Ren's intensity spiked. He began to cycle through his styles.
Lead-straight (Ryu). Vertical jab (Guile). Swaggering palm (Jamie).
Then, he reached the climax. He anchored his rear foot, his right arm winding back to its absolute limit.
FINISHER—[LUKE: ERASER]!
THOOM!!!
Ren launched the punch. The 150kg sandbag, which had been bolted to the deck, was launched off its mount. It flew ten meters through the air, slamming into the perimeter wall with a sound like a small car crash.
Wakatsuki followed the trajectory. Along the base of the wall, six other identical sandbags lay in a mangled heap, all of them having been blasted across the yard earlier that morning.
"..."
Wakatsuki raised an eyebrow. "That's the move that broke Kureha Shinogi, isn't it? A magnificent strike. But Ren-kun doesn't look satisfied."
"He isn't," An noted, organizing her new drugs. "He's been doing this since 8:00 AM. He's looking for something deeper than a knockout."
Wakatsuki watched Ren retrieve the bag. As an owner of the "Super-Physique," the Tiger was curious about Ren's obsession with the "Craft" of the hit.
"You know, An-san... a fighter never stops practicing the strike."
"Even if you have the power to shatter a mountain, a professional strike from a lightweight is often more lethal than a clumsy punch from a giant."
He tightened his fist. "Grip, torque, timing, battle-spirit... those are the variables that multiply the 'Might' of the vessel. If you rely on the body alone, you lose. Ren-kun is trying to find a specialized 'Form' for his impact."
Ren finished resetting the bags and invited the group to the porch for a light lunch.
"Yo! Ren-kun~!"
Mitsuyo Kureishi appeared right on cue, vaulting over the wall to join the meal. He looked lonely; his top student, Cosmo Imai, was away at a sanctioned Kengan match, leaving the "Bone-Crusher" with no one to play with at his own Dojo.
"Oho? Cosmo's Sensei is here too?"
Wakatsuki knew Kureishi well through his friendship with Cosmo. He helped Arisa distribute the bowls and chopsticks while asking about the prodigy.
"Aren't you going to watch Cosmo's match, Kureishi-san?"
"I'm his Master, not his babysitter," Kureishi said, stretching his arms. "Besides, it's a standard Kengan match. The opponent is a minor league striker. Consider it a warm-up before the 'Real Combat' begins."
"Minor league...?"
Wakatsuki's expression turned somber. "Under the new ** Street Brawl Annihilation** rules, the concept of 'Weak' and 'Strong' might change."
"Hmm?" Kureishi raised an eyebrow.
"The traditional matches happen in a controlled cage," Wakatsuki explained. "But now, the result can be registered after the fact. That opens up a terrifying amount of tactical room."
"A firm could hire five assassins. As long as one of them catches the target in an alley, they win. That's a valid strategic 'Might.'"
"And what about the 'Free-Range' monsters? The convicts? They won't wait for a bell. They'll choose a terrain that favors their style."
Wakatsuki picked up a glass. "Imagine a Jiu-Jitsu specialist like Cosmo being ambushed in an alley filled with broken glass and rusty needles. His ground game—his greatest 'Might'—becomes his grave. His options would be zero."
Kureishi chuckled. "Sounds like a nightmare. But that's the path the kid chose. I just hope he has the guts to survive the landing."
While the veterans talked, Ren Shiroki ate in silence. His eyes were glazed, his mind still in the "Imaging" world.
What is [Strike: The Apex]?
"Onii-chan," Arisa nudged him, placing a piece of grilled meat in his bowl. "Focus."
Ren blinked. "I am focused."
"On the food? Or the training?" Arisa asked.
Ren opened his mouth to answer, but stopped.
"Focus..."
He suddenly realized what was missing. He began to eat with a sudden, rhythmic intensity.
After lunch, the guests continued their chatter, but Ren returned to the heavy bag.
This time, he didn't punch. He stood in a focused stance, his eyes closed, his breathing a slow, shallow pulse. He was manually scanning his own body, adjusting the tension in his muscles by the millimeter.
Hours passed. The sun began to dip toward the horizon.
Ren was drenched in sweat. His body wasn't moving, yet the internal recruitment of his muscles was so intense it was generating a physical heat.
The phantoms of his masters gathered around him. They were curious, too. They wanted to see the first "Form" their disciple would birth.
Focus...
Ren chambered his right fist.
Not focused enough. My mind is still drifting.
Even with the [ENGINE] running, there was still "Static." He was excluding the unconscious, but he wasn't including the Totality.
Where is the noise?
His heart was beating. His stomach was digesting. His skin was secreting sweat. His mouth was producing saliva.
Focus on that, too!
He didn't just want his muscles to punch. He wanted his entire biological existence to have a singular goal.
He remembered the fight with Kureha—the moment he hit the "Super-Physique" so hard the doctor thought his own arm had exploded.
Where did that power come from? The bones? The tendons?
NO.
Ren realized the truth. The origin of the "Apex" wasn't a macro-movement.
It was the [CELLS].
Every human being is composed of over 36 Trillion Cells.
In the microsecond of the strike, those 36 trillion entities had a single, shared desire. They wanted to hit.
If you can synchronize your consciousness down to the cellular level—if every red blood cell, every nerve ending, every fiber of meat acts in perfect, unified compliance with the Will...
Then the "Vessel" becomes absolute.
Ren's rear foot slammed into the dirt, the concrete beneath the topsoil shattering. He lunged.
[ENGINE — STRIKE AT THE APEX]!!!
WHOOSH!
Since lunch, Ren hadn't moved. Now, he threw his first punch.
THOOM!!!
The high-end, reinforced 150kg sandbag didn't fly back. It didn't dent.
It Detonated.
The heavy vinyl skin was shredded into confetti, and the internal sand exploded outward like a cloud of shrapnel. A roar like a localized earthquake echoed through the Shinjuku night.
Ren stood in the dust, his fist still extended. He looked at his hand.
"Nice," he whispered, his eyes glowing.
"Over 36 Trillion... that feels like a good start."
☆☆☆
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